Gris

She's a Polaroid photo except she's seeping back into the paper, not vice versa.  Her color is dissipating, not saturating.  Four color, pastel, black and white, g-r-i-s.  That's French for gray, but I pronounce it grizz, not gree.

Her outlines blur, lose focus.  Edges bleed to background.  Reading glasses don't help. 

Her voice sounds sleepy, drunk, drugged.  Slow motion combined with Novicaine.  A refrigerator hum.  A television channel that went off the air at midnight.

When she walks, it's cautious, fearful.  Hands out, fingers splayed, anticipating the ground.  Carpet or cement in the palm of her hands.  Her gait?  Shush, shuffle, shish.  But not necessarily Parkinson's-y.  It's more ambulating-an-inch-at-a-time-seems-safer. 

Curb?  Step? 

"Hold my hand."

~~~~~~~

"What'd you eat for breakfast?"

"What did you eat for breakfast?"

"It's yellow, and it's all around your mouth,"

She looks for her eyebrows.  "Cereal maybe?"

"It's egg," I say.  "Here, take my tissue.  Spit on it.  Wipe there."  I point to one corner of her mouth.  "Now the other side.  Use your fingernail maybe."

~~~~~~~

Silence.

"What time is it?"

I glance at my watch.  "Noon."

Quiet.

"What time is it?"

I swallow.  "Stilll noon."

In the woods behind her house, birds sing.  Auditory joy.

"What'd you say your name was?"

My gnashing teeth sound like she looks—gris.